his love had hair like fire (her eyes an emerald sheen)
by aweasleyjumper
Summary: mostly unrelated drabbles, featuring FemHarry.
1. the maiden who lives in the willow

**title:** the maiden who lives in the willow

 **pairings:** FemHarry/Draco

 **word count:** 378

 **notes:** ok this started as ginny/luna drabble but ended up femharry/draco idek how that happened but well

 **notes#2:** why not write a complete different thing when you have two updates waiting, right?

#

you know her like the back of your hand. you know every shade of red and orange in her hair. you know every little freckle on her face, each of their place. you know the emerald sheen of her eyes, you know it you love it—you worship it.

you know her voice in every levels. you know her whispers and her shouts and her screams and her words. you know how her heart beats, how she breaths when she is excited or sad or furious.

you know every inch of her skin like you know yours, no, even better than your own. you know the curve of her lips, you know the smooth skin of her stomach, you know the birthmark on the middle of her back, you know the scar on her hip that she got because she fell down the stairs while running from her cousin, and it scarred because no one healed it properly. you know the stretch marks on her thighs that came with the puberty. you know the dusky colour of her nipples, you know the sounds she makes when she comes, you know the soft whimpers that comes from her mouth and her hands clenching and the arch in her back.

you know she hates being only known as the girl-who-lived, the chosen one. you know she hates when people underestimate her because she is a girl because she is young because they think she cannot fight. you know she hates having to fight the dark lord without even given a choice, that _she has to_ because that is what is expected of her.

you know she loves when you talk about the wizarding culture that she never had the chance to learn, the history that she never learned, and she actually listens to you. you know she loves when you kiss her softly and she loves when you kiss her with fire—red, burning fire, as red as her hair—and with passion and you know she loves when you play with her hair and when you wrap them around your finger and pull and—and—and when you kiss her hair—

you know you love her and you know you don't ever want to leave her.


	2. your sacred stars won't be guiding you

**title:** your sacred stars won't be guiding you

 **pairings:** none

 **word count:** 563

 **notes:** this didn't have to be femharry but i feel like i'm defiling canon harry when i make him kill someone.

#

She dreams of red—red for the guilt, red for her hands, red for the blood.

.

The first time was an accident, she says to herself. It was self-defence, she did not have any other choice.

But as she remembers Quirrell's screams as they echo in her head, the burn underneath her hands, the red, scarred skin and the smell of burn and blood and death, she knows deep inside she wanted him dead.

.

She is only eleven, and she presses her hands to Quirrell's face and it burns, burns and her professor screams and she feels her eyes getting heavy and she presses harder with all her strength.

Quirrell falls and she falls with him.

.

It was not you who killed him, Professor Dumbledore says when she wakes up in the hospital wing days later, he was dead from the moment he allowed Lord Voldemort in his body.

She wants to believe him, she wants it yet she _knows._

(Ron and Hermione does not even ask what happened to Quirrell, if he died by her hands or somebody elses, dumbledore or snape, maybe. neither does anyone else.)

 _._

Maybe she wanted Quirrell dead ot maybe she did not she is not sure, but as she gazes upon Pettigrew's eyes, and sees the fear and desperation and the plea, she knows she would enjoy killing Pettigrew in the most painful way possible.

She smiles, a glint on her eyes that no one notices, and stops Lupin and Black killing him and ridding her of her vengeance.

.

Pettigrew runs, Cedric dies, and Voldemort rises again.

A war begins and people always die in wars. Nobody really blames her for killing Death Eaters.

.

She knows it is not here, there is no blood on her hands but she can feel it.

She feels the warm liquid, sticky and red on her hands, on her face, on everywhere. She sees it when she looks at the mirror—her face covered in blood, blood stains on her clothes, blood dripping onto the floor, blood, so much blood.

.

She sees Pettigrew again in Malfoy Manor and gives him a quick death—a mercy killing, most would say.

The death leaves a bad taste in her mouth but she shakes off the thought and focuses on saving Hermione.

.

The war ends and a handful of Death Eater's lives ends by her hands with it's end.

.

Cedric did not die because of you, they say, it was You-Know-Who who took his life.

( _They cannot even say his name_ , she thinks, _how will they fight him_.)

I was the one who made him take the cup, I was the one who lead him to his death, she wants to answer but the words get caught up in her throat.

.

She saves Bellatrix for the last, even after the death of her beloved Dark Lord.

Yes, she hates Voldemort with all her guts, the murderer of her parents, but she hates Bellatrix even more.

Voldemort—Tom, just Tom—killed her parents but she never knew them, she does not remember them.

Bellatrix killed Sirius, she killed Tonks and she tortured Hermione— _how dare she even touch my Hermione_ —she hurt all the people she considered family.

She prolongs Bellatrix' death as long as she can, and in the end she dies by her hands screaming.

.

 **notes#2:** i started watching spartacus recently, is it too obvious?


	3. dream a little dream of me

**title:** dream a little dream of me

 **pairings:** FemHarry/Ginny

 **word count:** 673

 **notes:** cinderella!au.

 **notes#2:** this was supposed to be longer and, you know, actually complete, but I didn't really have enough time to finish it and I probably won't have for at least about two months. So I'm just gonna post this here for safe-keeping (because I always lose my notebooks) and hopefully, maybe, I can finish it some time later.

#

She doesn't remember her parents. Mostly.

She remembers the red hair of her mother—that to her displeasure she did not inherit. She remembers her smell—of roses red and prickly, and of grass—of freshness. She remembers the smell clearly, she remembers herself smelling her mother's clothes after she dies, the smell she loves so much. She remembers her father's laugh—so loud and boisterous and happy—and—and always there. She remembers her father always laughing or smiling or grinning, always happy.

Her father dies first, when she is not even two years old, too young to know, to comprehend what happened. He dies on the road to Scotland, to visit his friend Lord Black, her mother says and they never find his body. Her mother follows him about a year later. She dies peacefully on her bed—their bed, theirs since the start of their marriage— a wistful smile on her face, happy to follow her husband to death. She loved your father too much, they say to her, she could not live without him.

.

"You have until midnight. When the clock strikes the last time at midnight, all the magic will be gone." the fairy godmother, Minerva, says and closes the carriage's door.

 _midnight, midnight, midnight,_ she repeats like a mantra on the road to the palace, she does not want to forget it, it is important— _midnight, midnight_ — and she will remember.

.

The princess is— alluring.

That is the only word she can think saying about her—alluring, exquisite and stunning. She has red hair—the red hair she was always jealous of— and it falls through her shoulders like a waterfall, it shines with all the lights in the ballroom, it shines like it is touched by magic.

Her face is bright and symmetric and reminds her so much of an angel she almost gasps. It is a face of art, like a sculpture made by the world's most accomplished artist. It looks smooth and soft, a pinkness on her cheeks, maybe because of the crowd's watching eyes on her or maybe because she finds it too warm in the ballroom, she does not know, she does not care.

.

"I thought this ball was for you to find a husband." Hyacinth says, a laugh escaping her mouth. "But you danced with no one but me throughout the whole night."

Ginevra shrugs. She gives Hyacinth a smirk. "I am the princess, if I cannot do whatever I wanted, who can?" She stops in front of her and looks up at her. Hyacinth tovers over Ginevra by a few inches. She lifts her hand to Hyacinth and touches her cheek hesitantly with the tip of her fingers. It feels as soft as she imagined—even softer, maybe. She caresses her cheeks with her fingers. "And what if I wanted a wife, a princess instead of a husband?" she asks, her voice barely audible, coming with a sigh.

"A wife?" Hyacinth manages to gasp out. She takes a few steps back. Ginevra's face falls and her hand falls with it. "It is—What you say is not—not proper, especially for a princess. You are the only daughter of King Arthur, you—you must marrt a man." she chokes out, as if the thought Ginevra marrying someone else hurts her.

Ginevra scoffs. She takes a step forward, towards Hyacinth. "They have six sons before me, and two grandsons, so what if I wanted to marry to someone who holds my heart?"

Hyacinth feels her ees widen. "Who—who holds your heart?" she echoes. "I—" she starts but the chime of the clock cuts her off.

"Midnight." she murmurs. And everything comes back to her mind. She is not what she appears to be, not who Ginevra sees her as. She is not someone who dances and laughs with princesses, she is a servant in her aunt's house, nothing more.

"I—I have to go." she blurts out and turns around and runs.

.


End file.
